End of a Scythe
by OfficialWeedTesterGuy
Summary: An astronaut from the 21st century, after a long sleep, awakens in a very different future, where death no longer exists. But this seemingly peaceful future is at risk. With little choice, Astronaut Jack Riley become the oldest scythe the Scythedom has ever seen. And he will cause change...
1. Prologue

_60 miles above Titan, moon of Saturn._

_NASA Exploration Vehicle Nike._

_Xenobiologist Jack Riley._

_May 17, 2038._

"Hey Larry, hand me that wrench, would ya?" I said to the fellow astronaut not a few meters beside me.

I turned my head to watch as he hands me the tool, catching as it drifted through space towards me.

"Be careful with that thing, buddy, millions of American tax dollars went into that." Larry Foulke, my partner in crime, joked.

I laugh as I adjust my stubby gloved hands around the chipped fuel line, cut by a micrometeorite. We're currently on EVA, making sure all fuel lines are safe and secure before the final descent onto the moon. I've done several spacewalks in the past, but those were in Earth's orbit, where you could only get a good view of Earth and the Space Station if you were really lucky. But here in Titan's orbit, you can see Saturn and plenty of its brother and sister planetoids, all with the beautiful pure black backdrop of space. It's really something.

But, when you're an astronaut on a mission of such historic proportions, you tend to let your mind drift.

Larry here is the sole Brit on this expedition, outnumbered by us Americans and Canadians. I'm the youngest here, a measly eighteen years old. If it weren't for my theses on life surviving in methane-rich environments, I'd probably be stuck in some college classroom somewhere.

I find this the better alternative.

"Hey Jack, how's it going with that fuel line? I'd rather not have this whole ship go up, yeah?"

"Me neither, man." I replied, focused on the task at hand. "I'm almost done, just let me-"

Our suits' radios blared in our ears, as the captain's voice came over the frequency:"Foulke, Riley, get your asses back in here ASAP. MILTON's picked up a cluster of micros inbound. I suggest you get inside, unless you want your suits to be full of holes, over."

"Captain, the line isn't fixed yet!" I protested. "If one of those micros strikes the line ma'am, well, friction and highly explosive fuel are _not _going to mix well. What's our time looking like?"

"You have _at most_ two minutes before impact" She replied."This is an _order_, Riley. Get the hell back inside!"

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't, then." Foulke curses under his breath. "Bollocks, Jack. Back inside it is, then. Don't want to be turned into Swiss cheese, eh?"

I shove the wrench into a side pocket, seal it, and float after my comrade. All we have to do is make it to the miniature Stanford Torus near the bow of the ship where the crew's quarters are, and we should be alright.

For the first time during this mission, I feel scared. Worried. Mostly, my job en route involved doing PR stuff on Twitter or YouTube, acting as the public face of this historic mission. If all went well, we could have a colony here in two or three years.

That is, if we made it out alive. And right now, that was the only thing that mattered.

The thrusters on our packs slowly but surely guided us past the superstructure of the ship, carefully navigating past the various steel beams holding it together.

"Crew, this is Captain Harper. You have...one minute and counting to get to a secured area! Foulke, Riley, get your asses back here now!

Foulke grabs my hand. "You heard her, let's go!"

My heart starts to beat faster and faster as we keep ascending towards the Torus. "Damnit Foulke! We need to-"

My speech is cut short as something slams into my suit, nearly knocking me unconscious. I black out, and my body begins to go limp.

A loud, boisterous ringing blasts through my ears. I could barely make out what he's saying: "Man ...airlock ...micrometeorite ...immediate ...now!"

My body suddenly falls to the floor. Good, we're inside. I can see Foulke and another crew member work on taking the EVA suit off me as my vision begins to refocus.

It's smoking, covered in ash.

'_Fuck, a mico must've hit me earlier. Goddamnit_'. I can barely see a thing. The suit is off. My body, limp in the jumpsuit, is being lifted.

"Med ...sleep...protocol ...assistance...freeze!"

'_What? Are they going to freeze me? Seriously?_' I try to open my mouth to say something. But instead of words, only languished noises come out.

"Okay ...fine...self-repair...asleep...awhile...goodbye."

I'm being put in a box of some sorts. It's soft inside, with a glass window on top. I know what this thing is. A temporary cryo chamber; they use it for patients with critical injuries and illnesses. Your body is essentially frozen, not aging a second, while experimental nanomachines attempt to fix you. It works...mostly. These things are damn expensive. No wonder...I look up to see Larry banging on the pod door. He lifts a datapad over the window, so I can see.

"_Ship condition critical. Locking down Torus and essential systems. MILTON will attend to you. I gotta go quick. Get better soon, buddy." _

He gives me the thumbs-up, and runs. Shortly after I can see sleeping gas pours into the pod, slowly lulling me to sleep.

'_See you soon, buddy,'_ I think as I fall asleep. '_You'll be fine_.'

At least that was what I hoped at the time.

A blaring klaxon alarm rouses me from sleep. I lift myself up. Huh. Fully healed. Look at that.

_Ow! _I bang my head on the surface of the container.

"Remain still for several moments, Mr. Riley. You have been asleep for...awhile now."

"MILTON. What's going on?" I inquire the virtual intelligence.

"It appears, Mr. Riley, that the crew is currently incapacitated. Their pods are malfunctioning."

"What the hell do you mean, malfunctioning?" I grow worried by his words, fearing for the worst.

"The ship's integrity isn't compromised. However, the system prioritizing your teammate's lives is on partial standby. I suggest you head to the bridge to re-start my systems."

"How...how long have I been asleep?"

"Mr. Riley...it has been...a long time. This ship... has long overstayed its welcome. I have sacrificed much of my capabilities to keep it functional. We are currently en route to Mission Control. However, since reaching Luna's orbit. I have been unable to register any contact with NASA. Or any other space agency, for that matter. I am sorry."

"_What?_ MILTON, you're a goddamn AI! You should be able to find something!"

"I...cannot, sir. My systems have been weakened already as it is. And something is blocking me from entering any systems."

"How? Nothing on Earth can-"

"On _our_ Earth, sir, could block me." MILTON interrupts me. "From my calculations, it has been at least three hundred years since the incident. Humanity is alive and well, and seems to be more advanced."

"No shit." I used sarcasm to lighten the situation. "How long until we get to Earth?"

"Several hours, sir."

"Are any of our additional craft operational?"

"Yes, but barely. Minimal capacity-"

"That's good enough." Now I cut him off. "Here's what'll happen: is your core secure?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be removing your AI core and bring it with me to Earth. We'll attempt to land, and find out just what the hell is going on down there."

"Very well, sir."

I took a deep breath, trudging off to the cafeteria. This was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 1: Straight to the Head

_Low Earth Orbit, Earth_

_Nike Craft_

"MILTON, anything from the surface?" I asked the VI.

"Negative, sir. Something's _still _blocking me from accessing any database."

"Well,what is it?" I ask, my voice laced with irritation.

"An entity, it seems to be some sort of artificial intelligence, sir."

"_Artificial _intelligence?" I gasp.

"Sir, I'm not lying when I say that I'm as surprised as you are in the matter."

Back when intelligences like MILTON were made, many questioned the nature of such creations. See, MILTON, or Mil, as one of his many nicknames is, is a _virtual _intelligence. Not a true AI. Does he have his own adaptable personality? Definitely. Is he exponentially smarter and adaptable than any human alive? Certainly. Is he comically hostile to humans? Only when he feels like dicking around with us. Point is, he's smart, but not smart like how he'd be portrayed in the media and all that.

At least in _our _time.

I'm still trying to get a grip on this whole 'future' thing. Three hundred years...really? MILTON's exact timing must be a bit off, due to three hundred years of operation without a single repair...it's a miracle he's still functioning as well as he is. Hell, according to operational manuals, he shouldn't even be _talking_.

But I guess that's not the strangest thing that happened today.

I'm running final checks on the _Valkyrie_-class shuttlecraft docked to the _Nike, _a smaller variant of the X-37B from the early 2010s designed for planetary landings. I've loaded Mil's core onto it, as well as my personal belongings. We've set the mothership on a LEO orbit around Earth, shutting down all essential systems to prevent orbital decay. If Mission Control won't come to us - we'll come to them.

"Final flight check, Mil." I speak into the ear chip, beginning pre-flight systems check.

"Heat shield is...green, mostly?"

"Mostly?" I look up with a somewhat concerned face.

"The heat shield will definitely survive _this _re-entry. However, I cannot guarantee the next one will be so successful. I-"

"Is everything _else _fine?" I cut him off.

"Green status, sir."

I smile. "Let's go home."

The shuttle rocked as we detached from the mothership. I felt anxious; my hands shook, and I was sweating like I just did three miles without stopping. As we drifted away, and towards Earth, I was full of worry. _What had happened while I was gone? Why will no one respond? Is humanity...still humanity? Could any of my family still be alive...no, no Jack. That's stupid. How could they be alive? _

"Creator, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, and don't call me that. I'm not exactly in the best of moods now." I say through gritted teeth.

"Seeesh."

The ship rumbles as we descend through the atmosphere. The shield is still holding up well, I see. The dashboard flashes like crazy, but that's normal. However, what's _not _normal are the readings Mil's picking up.

"Sir...you're not going to believe this. But...I'm picking up no signs of CO2 emissions in our atmosphere. Human-caused, anyway. I'm also not picking up any emissions from the _continent, _either."

"So...if what you're saying is true…" I gasp. "Then…"

"The issue of climate change seems to have been heavily mitigated, at the very least. Compared to when we departed, the shift has been dramatic. This is either a feat of bioengineering on a mass scale or-"

"_Shit!_"

For the residents of Washington, D.C., loud sounds were nothing out of the ordinary.

Unsavory gangs would occasionally do battle in the back alleyways, rendering many deadish, only to come back several days later and begin the fights anew. The Peace officers would usually ignore such fights; Nimbus agents would intervene if necessary, but such violent incidents would usually sort themselves out, unlike the old days.

But today was different.

A bright orange flicker left a fiery trail in the sky, as a massive sonic boom cracked windows and sometimes burst eardrums for several miles. The trail was spearheaded by what looked like to be some kind of plane on fire, slowly breaking apart. _But how, _they would wonder. _There hasn't been a plane accident in centuries. The Thunderhead has seen to that. And the Thunderhead __**never **__makes mistakes. _

"I assure you, Jack, this is _not _a mistake on my part!"

"Oh really? Then _why _is this fucking spaceplane breaking apart while _we _are still _inside _of it?"

"This has been unmanaged for over three hundred-"

"I thought you repaired it!"

"To the best of my-"

"Fuck! Whatever." I yanked the control stick up, buying us some time. I yank Mil's core, stuff it in my pack, get the emergency chute, lock myself in to the ejection sequence, silently say a Hail Mary, and with a push of a button, I was shot from the plane.

The ejection seat lands somewhat in a cack alley, nearly busting my ass, but I'm still alive. _One of the few good things that happened today,_ I think as I unstrap myself, securing my things. _Cops should be here any minute. They can get me, and I can explain everything. Just hope the Prez understands my little...accident_.

"Hey, you!"

I look up. A worried-looking man in a business suit and tie is looking at me. "Kid..you alright?"

"Y...I...um…"

"Where'd you get that costume?"

I look back at him with a raised eyebrow. "C...costume?"

"Yeah. It looks really authentic? How much did you pay for that?"

"Pay? For this?" I shake my head. "N-no sir, this is quite real. NASA-made. Quality stuff!"

The look on the man's face makes it look like I asked him to solve the world's hardest math problem.

"Uh...NASA? What's a NASA? That some kind of computer?"

"A...computer? No, sir. NASA is a governmental organization that works with the United States government-"

"_United States? _Kid, that doesn't-"

The man freezes, as a knife pierces his chest, blood staining the white cloth. He gasps, staggers, and falls flat on his face, dead. Behind him is a woman, with silver hair, blue eyes, and wearing some kind of long, hooded lavender robe.

_The fuck?_

I leap back in surprise. "What the fuck! You just killed that guy!"

The woman cocked her head. "Killed him? No, I gleaned him."

"_Gleaned? _You just stabbed that guy through the chest! He wasn't doing anything wrong! What are you, some kind of police officer or something?"

"I'm a scythe of course, calm down, please!" She looks at me with a concerned face. "Is this your first time witnessing a gleaning?" She steps towards me.

I walk back, sweating as I feel cornered against the corrugated steel fence. "Lady," I say, struggling to find my emergency sidearm for _just-in-case _scenarios, "You better get the fuck away from me before I call the cops on your ass for _killing _someone!" She stops, looking at my uniform.

"You wouldn't have anything to do with the-"

I whip out my sidearm, and aim it at her, my hands shaking. "Madam, you are threatening a member of a government organization in relation to the United States of America. My boss answers directly to the President, and I swear-"

Her eyes widened. "President? Did you just say _President?_"

She looked like she'd seen a ghost. Which gave me a split second to shoot her once in the head, before taking off into the street. I was expecting to find a bustling city, filled with people.

What I found was very different.

The entire city looked like a scene from a video game. The whole place look dilapidated; entire buildings were run-down with missing windows and covered in graffiti - someone had drawn an enormous penis on the Washington Monument. Sidewalks are covered in trash and god knows what else. Cars were in the streets, but I couldn't pick out any semblance to police officers anywhere. People were milling around - the whole place just seemed...forgotten, dreary. _What the fuck did they do to my city? _As I run down the street, towards the Lincoln Memorial, sirens blare behind me. An automated voice tells me to stop running.

_The police! Finally. _I stop just outside of the Lincoln Memorial, and watch as some burly-looking dudes run up to me. Strange. What's that marking they have on their uniforms? Is that…

_A scythe? Fuck. _

They aim some kind of taser-looking device at me.

"Sir, you are under arrest for rendering a Scythe deadish. Do not try to resist!"

"Deadish? What-" Someone zaps me, and I fell unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3: In Another Time

_Unknown Location_

I groggily come to my senses, shaking my head as my vision adjusts to the bright lighting in the room. The walls are completely white, with only a table in front of me and an opaque window near the door. My uniform has been removed, replaced by a jumpsuit that has a large U on it. Odd.

"He's awake."

Voices! Yes! It's probably the government. They'll get me out of this situation. I hope they dealt with that crazy murdering lady. I wonder…

The door opens, and two bulky guys in grey uniforms with some kind of body armor walk in...with that weird reaper symbol on their armor.

_Ah shit. _

One takes a seat at the table in front of me, with a nasty scowl on his face, while the other stands behind me, towering over me. He's obviously trying to look intimidating.

"Would you mind telling me why you rendered a scythe deadish, young man?"

"What? Who are you? What is this place?" I look around. "I demand a lawyer, damn you! I work for-" He leans over and clotheslines me in the face sitting back down while cracking his knuckles.

"I don't think you've heard me. Why. Did. _You_. _Render. A. Scythe. Deadish?_"

Okay. Two can play at that game. "I. Do. Not. Know. What. The. Fuck. You. Are. Talking. About."

He smirks. "Wrong answer. Hold him." The second guard pulls my chair back, holding it. The first guy picks up some kind of baton. He jabs it into my stomach. I yowl with pain as the brute force nearly breaks the skin. He grabs me by the shoulders and knocks me over, the second guy kneeing me in the back.

"Why did you render a scythe deadish? I demand you tell me!"

"Becuase she fucking _killed _someone in cold blood, prick! That psycho bitch just stabbed him, and I retaliated! It's perfectly legal! Now would you-"

"Stop!"

The door flies open, to reveal a man.

Wearing gold robes. Ones _very _similar to those of the woman I shot.

"High Blade! What-"

"By my will, as High Blade of MidMerica, you will cease your actions and stop this _nonsense_ immediately. Leave now or I swear I will glean you two, _right here!_"

Looks like this guy has some kind of authority. They nod shamefully, and walk out the door.

The gold-robed guy shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath as he helps me up.

"On behalf of the Midmerican Scythedom, I am so sorry about that. The BladeGuard can get very physical sometimes. Almost _too _physical."

"Please, for the life of me, tell me what's going on." I stared at him with a confused look on my face.

The man sighed, sitting down. He seems a little...heavy, and he looks at me with how a child would look at a dinosaur in a zoo."What year do you think it is?

"Year? I...when I could recall, it was 2038."

The man shakes his head, frowning. "Back when we used numbers to describe years...still can't believe that was really a thing humans did in Mortal times."

"Mortal times?" I asked, confused by the term.

"This may seem hard for you to believe, but it is approximately three hundred and thirty years since when you started your mission."

"...Three hundred and thirty? Could it...was it really _that _long?" I simply could not believe it. Everything...just went numb. The Earth I knew...was gone. My family...my friends...all of it just lost to time.

I can't exactly remember what happened next, but from what the High Blade guy told me, I had a major panic attack, something that hadn't happened to anyone in hundreds of years. I passed out for a few hours, and woke up in some kind of bed, in a cell.

The High Blade told me everything about what happened to the world while I was gone: In 2042, the online cloud became sentient, naming itself Thunderhead. It became an overbearing yet benevolent AI manager, solving basically all of humanity's problems over time. Global warming, poverty, war...it solved _all _of that shit. Crime isn't a thing anymore, homelessness has been long gone due to a worldwide minimum wage paid to all, regardless of whether one worked or not. And apparently, I'm now the oldest living person on Earth. Huh.

Oh yeah, and immortality is a thing, too.

You see, in 2042, nanites were developed, that would grant anyone immortality. You can reset your age, called 'turning the corner', back to any previous age around twenty, whenever you want. These nanites also eliminate any chance of infection from disease, and also regenerates most injuries, except from fire. If someone _actually _dies, it's called 'being deadish', and unless the body is completely burned, you will be revived, for a small fee.

Neat stuff. And it completely overwhelms me.

Apparently my mission was for nothing, as several horrible accidents that befell the 'post-mortal' space program on the Moon and Mars. So humanity as a species is stuck here on its cradle for the foreseeable future. We're stagnant.

And that's not even talking about the Scythedom.

So with humanity stuck on one planet, and as all of those humans are immortal, mind you, overpopulation was going to be a problem. So the Scythedom was founded. A group of humans, trained to _glean _\- their word for killing - people so the population stays at an amount where the Thunderhead can manage it accordingly. Each scythe must kill..._glean_, I mean, 250 people per year to fulfill their quotas.

It's basically government-mandated murder, seeing as how the Scythedom basically rules death. The Thunderhead seems like an interesting entity. Not like the AI pictured in movies or games, I see. _Suck it, James Cameron. _It has its own network of agents and everything. It just seems so...simple. Managing the world in such a way just seems...odd. No government incompetence, no greed...from a 21st century perspective, it seems so odd.

I cried, too. A lot.

Sure, this brave new world seemed all well and good, but for me? I had lost everything. My family was gone. My expeditionary crew, who was basically my second family, was gone. My 21st-century education probably made me look like an idiot compared to these people, and I was definitely out of place. Back in my day, I feared death.

Today, not at all.

These people are just... _numb_ to it. Their nanites can prevent anything, from depression to cancer. They're not even sure if _I _can get these nanites. No one's had to have them implanted for hundreds of years - it's just a thing everyone has now. The man in gold just sat and watched.

I cried some more, and some more, and eventually calmed down. The man in gold introduced himself. His name was Xenocrates, High Blade of the MidMerican Scythedom. That means that he's the head honcho of the MidMerican order of scythes, which basically covers the formerly named US of A. The Scythe that I rendered deadish, Scythe Curie (when they become Scythes, apparently they rename themselves after a historical figure), was a celebrity, known for gleaning the last President of the United States around a hundred and fifty years ago, to help end corruption so the Thunderhead could move in. He told me that a lot of scythes wanted me gleaned for doing such an act. Under the circumstances, the High Blade formally excused me.

Well, _that's _a relief.

Moving on, should I decide to stay and not allow myself to be gleaned (something I was seriously considering), I would be turned over to the AI, or Authority Interface, basically the operating body under the Thunderhead. They handle Unsavories (basically edgy people who don't follow the normal way of life and cause minor trouble), Nimbus Agents (Thunderhead proxies), administrative things like that.

They managed to recover a lot of my stuff from the crash, as well as MILTON's core, which appears to be still functioning. With my permission, the nanites everyone has will hopefully be integrated into my body, allowing for me to de-age whenever I want, just like everyone else. There's more stuff to be done, but seeing how the Scythedom isn't under the Thunderhead's control, the rest of the more technical stuff will be handled by Nimbus agents. Due to my age, there's possible talk of me getting permanent immunity, but I really don't care about that.

All I want is some peace, damnit.

**A/N: Thank you all for reading this ff of mine. This universe has lots of potential, and I will be sure as hell exploiting it. Shoutout to my friend DerelictTyrant on FF net for reviewing my stories. Check him out, he's a good writer! **


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